


Time wounds all heels

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: God might be dead, but we aren't yet [4]
Category: True Detective
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Canon, Rape Aftermath, but hey, but not a bleak one either, check the notes for more detailed warnings, everybody is trying their best, they're working on it, this is... not exactly a happy story, which isn't always a success
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24392662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: Marty manages to not say anything for five days, which is no small feat. Takes a lot of effort on his part. He’s not usually one to keep quiet, but he figures whatever it is might just pass them by. Maybe all Rust needs is some time to work through it… hell, not like Marty doesn’t have some days from time to time, some old hurt flaring up, some nightmare dragging old memories back to the surface.In which an old hurt flares up again.(This is part of a bigger AU, but all you really need is the tag "established relationship" and you're good to go.)
Relationships: Rustin "Rust" Cohle/Martin "Marty" Hart
Series: God might be dead, but we aren't yet [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594621
Comments: 30
Kudos: 87





	Time wounds all heels

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [[translation] 旧日伤痕 Time wounds all heels](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24548416) by [hieroglyphics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hieroglyphics/pseuds/hieroglyphics)



> The incomparable [hieroglyphics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hieroglyphics/pseuds/hieroglyphics) have taken it upon themselves to translate this fic into Chinese.
> 
> Check notes at the end for a more detailed description and additional warnings.

Rust isn’t sleeping.

Which sounds like one of those _no shit, Sherlock_ statements, honestly, because Rust’s connection to sleep has always seemed tenuous at best, but he seems to be doing even less of it now.

At first glance it might be hard to tell, but Marty’d like to think he’s doing better these days. 

Eats regularly, for one thing, and actual meals, too. Marty knows, because he gets to watch him do it most of the time. Drinks a lot less as well, unless he’s doing it in secret which... Marty pretty damn sure he isn’t. Might not be some philosophical fucking super-genius over here, but he _did_ hold the occupation of detective for many a year and what’s more, he knows what that looks like on Rust – the bloodshot eyes, the millisecond of a mental pause before he says anything out loud, the resigned misery of it all.

The sleeping part though… that’s tricky, because Rust already doesn’t sleep a lot. The things is, even if he doesn’t, he usually seems happy enough to be in the horizontal all the same? As far as Marty can tell, he tends to just... lie there, maybe actually giving sleep a try or something like that, maybe just watching Marty drool on his pillow – because Marty has woken up more than once with Rust just staring at him through half-lidded eyes, breathing slow and steady, clearly still wide awake. It should be unsettling, but for some reason it just isn’t. 

But he usually spends _some_ portion of the night in bed at least, is the point here, instead of roaming around the house like some ghost or watching some crap on the TV, just sitting there, frozen in place, with a half-finished beer bottle in one hand, eyes dead and unseeing. 

There’s no date of significance coming up, at least not as far as Marty is aware. Which might not be saying much, he’s willing to admit, but he knows the obvious ones by now, at least. Would be real fucking pathetic if he didn’t. Sophia’s anniversaries (both, her birthday and... the other one), the anniversary of the death of Rust’s father, Carcosa. 

Nothing comes close. 

Still, Rust is... there’s _something_ going on. He’s not exactly moody, which… well, they _both_ are from time to time, Marty’s not even going to lie, and more… subdued, would probably be the right word. And yes, most people would probably think Rust is _subdued_ all of the time anyway, because he’s not exactly personable if he’s not required to be. (Tends to react to most people like a cat confronted with the ocean for the first time – very uncomfortable and not that interested at the same time, like he’s not sure what the fuck he’s supposed to _do_ here.) 

But at the same time… the asshole’s got _opinions._ Might not always put them into actual words, but they radiate off of him like heat. Marty has never met anybody who can think this fucking loudly. And of course, he’s usually thinking most of it in Marty’s direction, raises an eyebrow, chews on the inside of his lower lip, fiddles with something, so Marty can be _aware_ Rust is having opinions again. So he doesn’t miss it by accident. Other people might complain, or sigh, or roll their eyes, but Rust just… _thinks._ Very aggressively. 

Except now, he doesn’t seem to have an opinion on anything, because he seems… not entirely there. Does all the things he’s supposed to do, says all the things Marty expects him to say, but they’re off. It’s like he’s quoting lines from a play or something, aware of what he’s saying but he clearly didn’t come up with any of it on the spot. 

Marty manages to not say anything for five days, which is no small feat. Takes a lot of effort on his part. He’s not usually one to keep quiet, but he figures whatever it is might pass. Maybe Rust just needs some time to work through it… hell, not like Marty doesn’t have some _days_ from time to time, some old hurt flaring up, some nightmare dragging old memories back to the surface. On those days, nobody talk to him or else. After five days, Rust is still ambling around like some lanky zombie, though, so Marty decides that maybe he should ask. Can’t hurt, can it? 

Rust is in the kitchen, cutting slices off an apple with his pocket knife, chewing them absentmindedly. He makes a low noise of acknowledgment when Marty walks in. Holds out one slice in Marty’s direction as an offering, wedged between his thumb and the blade. 

“Nahh, thanks,” Marty says. Clears his throat for good measure. “So, ermm…” he says which is already terrible, it already gives everything away. “So, you. What’s, what’s going on with you, Rust? You alright?”

Rust blinks at him, surprised for about two seconds, and then he clearly settles on something in his head.

“This about the sex?” he says. 

Which comes totally out of left field, because… well. They’re fucking, yes, and it’s been a while, _yes,_ but Marty was definitely not aware that this of all things might be an issue. Might be _the_ issue, apparently, if that’s Rust’s first go to, and that… well, that can’t be good, right? That spells all kinds of trouble. 

“What?” Marty says. Didn’t mean to sound all incredulous, but there you go. 

“’Cause if you did feel the need to get laid,” Rust continues, “I ain’t... I’m having zero problems with you doin’ that.”

“What,” Marty says again, trying to catch up with the damn thread of this conversation in his head, because seriously, what the fuck. For one horrifying moment he almost thinks Rust is fucking... trying to give him permission to- he doesn’t even know, _do_ something involving his own miserable self, leaning against the counter over there. It makes Marty feel like throwing up a little bit, quite honestly, the mere implication of it, because _what the fuck._ Also, yeah it’s been a while, but it hasn’t been that long. Marty wasn’t even aware that time gap was actually meaningful. 

“Could go out,” Rust continues stubbornly and Marty realizes with something close to relief that Rust meant fucking _somebody_ _else._ Thank Christ. “Find somebody-” 

“What,” Marty says for a third time, just for emphasis, flat and unamused, which earns him a shrug.

“Just sayin’,” Rust mutters. Puts his unfinished apple down on the counter, pockets his knife without cleaning it first. “We ain’t married or nothin’. If you wanna-”

“Do us both a favor,” Marty says resolutely. “And shut the fuck up.”

Rust does, but with the sullen air of a teenager being told off. 

Which shouldn’t be endearing- hell, none of this revelation should be a good thing at all. Marty should... he doesn’t _know._ Feel upset, probably, or disappointed, or jealous, or at the very least he should be trying to figure out what this fucking statement actually means for them, regarding their _relationship_ or whatever it is they have going on. 

If _this_ is how Rust sees this whole thing – non-exclusive, expendable, temporary at best... except he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. Marty knows that with a certainty that almost surprises himself, some gut instinct that tells him that the assumption of Rust having any desire to go look for greener pastures somewhere else is complete and utter bullshit. 

Which is funny, really, because if at any point in the past somebody Marty was seeing had told him “listen, if you want to fuck somebody else, I’m fine with it, you _can”_ he’d have been mad as hell, because his first and immediate assumption would have been that _they_ were sleeping with somebody else, or at least wanted to; and yeah, he’s aware of how that might be saying more about _him_ than anything else. 

So fucking what. He never claimed to be a saint, or even a good person, really, even though he’d like to consider himself capable of occasionally doing the right thing at least, given half a chance. 

The point is, he _knows_ Rust is in this for the long haul. He might not be in this _house_ for the long haul, because Marty still dreads the day he might wake up and find him gone without a trace, off to Alaska or Iceland or the North fucking Pole, but he’s definitely... well. He came back for Marty too, didn’t he, not just to finish the case. Stayed afterwards, for whatever fucking reason. And now Marty is standing in the middle of their kitchen, feeling so unbearably fond of the brilliant fucking idiot (who just suggested Marty go out and get laid by somebody else if he can’t go without) it feels a little hard to breathe.

Rust is still pointedly staring at him, in that way he always gets when he’s got more to say about a subject but decided to shut up about it because somebody told him to, like it’s some form of backwards protest. 

“I ain’t gonna go out and find somebody to _get laid,”_ Marty says, air quotes and everything, because that feels important to clarify first. “Don’t want to do that,” he adds, once again surprised by how much he actually means it. 

Rust snorts, which unexpectedly does sting a little.

“Oh, fuck you,” Marty tells him and goes to lean against the kitchen table. 

They’re silent for a while, which is fine, actually. If there’s anybody on the planet Marty doesn’t mind being sullenly quiet with, it’s Rust Cohle. Which is a nice sentiment in theory. Maybe he should say that out loud, but instead he says: “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Rust says. “I’m... well. Something’s come up, you could say. From way back when.”

“How far back?”

“A while,” Rust says, then adds, “The undercover days.”

"Ah," Marty says, noncommittal. Wonders if he should leave it at that. Whatever it is, it can’t be good. Who even knows if Rust wants to talk about it at all. From the looks of it, Rust doesn’t seem too sure either.

“Just, you know,” Marty says awkwardly. Resist the urge to shove his hands into his pockets. “I’m here. If you, you know. Wanna talk about it or something.”

“Yeah…” Rus says slowly, like he’s trying out the word for the first time and isn’t sure yet whether he likes it or not. “Yeah, it’s… I know. S’nothing, though. I’m fine.”

He pushes away from the counter all of a sudden, not like he’s in a hurry or trying to flee or anything, everything about him calm and collected, but he’s definitely aiming for the door. Marty lets him pass, staring at his retreating back until he’s disappeared. 

The half-eaten apple still lies there on the counter, looking weirdly tidy without any actual bite marks, just the clean lines the knife left behind. 

* * *

Marty wakes up that night at around two in the morning, still alone in an empty bed, and decides, fuck it. It’s been almost a week at this point. This can’t be healthy. Gets up and collects his blanket for good measure, draping it around his shoulders. Not entirely sure if it’s supposed to keep him warm or if it will have to serve as some kind of shield, but it makes him feel better nonetheless. 

Rust, predictably, is in the living room. The TV is off, which might be a good sign, might be not – given that he appears to be wide awake, just sitting in the dark, smoking and staring at nothing. His makeshift ashtray, an empty tin can, is just about full with cigarette buds. Must’ve carried that in from the outside, Marty thinks, there’s no way in hell he smoked all of those in here. 

He sits down on the couch, trying not to look directly at Rust, all sprawled out in his armchair. Figures his presence alone is enough of a statement. 

“Marty…” Rust says eventually, after a minute or so, like a greeting. 

“Evening, Rust,” Marty says, going for humor and doesn’t quite pull it off. Another minute or so passes, filled with expectant silence. 

“Don’t want you freakin’ out about this,” Rust says then, which means it’s _bad._

“Sure,” Marty says. They both know it's bullshit, because he’s probably going to try and fail immediately, but maybe the sentiment counts for something. “Swear I won’t, Rust.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?” Rust says very sarcastically, which means he’s basically already convinced Marty is going to freak out about this.

Marty unwinds one of his arms and does the gesture with two fingers, exaggerated, painting a cross over his chest. “Hart,” he says then, pointing to himself. “Get it?”

“Jesus Christ,” Rust mutters. Puts his current cigarette into the tin can without actually stubbing it out, both of them watching it glimmer for a few seconds longer until it goes out.

“Thing is,” Rust says, very slowly, “I’ve done a thing or two. In those days. Trying to get by. Trying not to be expendable enough to get shot in the fucking head most days, believe it or not, least no until... I got some useful information out of it.”

“Sure,” Marty says again. There’s dread pooling in the very pit of his stomach. “Makes sense.”

He’s always suspected... something. Or at the very least, he’s suspected there was something _to_ suspect. Decided very early on he wasn’t going to touch those suspicions with a ten feet pole if Rust didn’t bring it up voluntarily, if only to keep his own sanity intact. 

“So,” Rust says, very casual about it. “Not bein’ expendable... well, one of the shortcuts- the one that seemed to make sense at the time was to bend over for some people.”

 _“Some_ people,” Marty says. He can feel himself slipping into what he used to think of as _crime scene_ mode; walking up to some shithole you know houses a bloodbath, feeling yourself go numb and number with every step. Trying to separate yourself in advance from the harsh reality of it all. Not your mess, no sir, you’re just the one who gets to observe it now. Might not be ideal, but fuck it. He’s got to get through this somehow. 

“Yeah...” Rust says, leaning forward. Neatly folds his hands in front of him, elbows on his knees, and interlaces his fingers.

“Ginger,” Marty says, finally catching on.

“Yeah,” Rust says, looking almost relieved. “Yeah, mostly him.”

And for one single, blissful second, it almost seems like this is it. This is all there is to it. They’ve gotten through it, disaster averted. It's not great information to have, it's not like Marty is _enjoying_ this knowledge, but it's nothing completely unreasonable either. He can deal with Ginger. Except of course it isn’t over and of course they haven’t gotten through anything yet. 

“One time,” Rust says and he’s not looking at anything now, not the couch table, not Marty, not anything, mind a million miles away. “Was out of it anyway, off my fuckin’ head, so it ain’t like... anyway, that time, Ginger thought it was funny to get the zip ties out. Must’ve been lying around or something, I don’t fuckin’ know. Lot of shit goin’ on at that time. Lot of things happenin'. He was... I mean, didn’t fuckin’ ask, naturally, and we were already- he was already balls deep, so it ain’t like it mattered much anyway. Didn’t make a damn difference at that point, least not to me. Probably could’ve stopped him if I’d paid more attention, said something to the contrary, I dunno.”

Marty’s not quite sure if he remembers how to breathe. Still, he can’t seem to help himself. “Hands?”

“Yeah,” Rust says. He still seems like he’s talking to thin air, like he’s forgotten Marty is even there. “Behind my back, ‘cause it was- we were up against the wall already, I remember ‘cause... pretty sure they were gonna break my nose at some point, just from pushin’ my face against the wall.”

 _They,_ Marty thinks, the word searing through the very core of him, burning all of his nerve endings, making the hairs on his arms stand up. It feels like a thousand nails clawing over a chalkboard. _They, they, they._ Realizes he might throw up. Realizes that he absolutely fucking can’t right now and takes a deep breath instead. Rust doesn’t seem to notice.

“At some point, somebody must’ve come in,” he says. “I didn’t... I wasn’t all there, all of the time. Ginger thought... y’know. They should… fuck me as well. Sharing is caring, spirit of camaraderie, shit like that. I remember...” He stops himself, looking almost surprised. Could mistake him for a statue, keeping himself completely still like that, almost like he's frozen in time. 

“Remember what,” Marty says hoarsely. 

“...them laughin’ 'bout it,” Rust says. “Probably cause... might’ve told them to fuck off or something, at first, I ain’t... again, wasn’t exactly all there the whole time.”

“Sure,” Marty says again. 

It feels like the dumbest, most inadequate word anybody has ever said. Tries very hard not to make the mental connection between this and all the other victims of... _that kind of violence_ he's come across over the course of his life, who also kept insisting that they didn't really remember most of the time; it happened too fast, it was too dark, they were too out of it, they don't really recall the details anymore, so stop fucking asking. Tries very hard not to think the words _defense mechanism,_ even though it's probably a more than fair assessment. “Yeah, sure.”

“Well, anyway,” Rust says. He seems to be running out of steam now, like he’s floating back down to earth. “That... it ain't much of a story. But, man, y’know. I just suddenly kept remembering, for whatever fuckin reason.”

“Sure,” Marty says. _Again._ Shifts on the couch until Rust is close enough to touch, and then reaches out and puts a careful hand on his arm. Rust doesn’t flinch away, but he does furrow his brow like he's confused, staring down at Marty's hand curling protectively, partially obscuring the tattooed bird from view in the process, before he raises his head to shoot Marty a quick glance.

“M’fine,” he murmurs, gaze dropping down to Marty's hand again. “Is the main thing here. Ain’t like I’m cryin’ myself to sleep at night, thinkin’ ‘bout shit like that.”

“Yeah,” Marty says weakly. “‘Course you don’t.” 

Can't help thinking that from now on, _he_ just might.

They don’t say much more for the remainder of the night. Just sit there for a while longer, Marty with his fingers wrapped around Rust underarm, since Rust doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe it helps some. Marty can't really tell. He feels out of it, almost, like he’s watching himself from the corner, sitting there like an idiot, holding onto Rust’s arm. Some distant part of his brain recognizes it as shock, or some variation of it, not quite done processing all of the information yet. 

Eventually, Rust gets up and sprawls out on the couch instead, thigh pushing up against Marty’s; wordlessly reaches for the remote and turns the TV on. Sports channel, which is fine, it’s meaningless, they’re showing some golf tournament. The clothes alone identify it as something that is at least fifteen years old. 

Marty has the irrational thought of sharing the blanket with him. Has no idea if Rust would prefer that or not. Gets up at some point past three am and gets them some beers, and then that is it. They sit there until dawn, motionless and wide awake, pressed together from shoulder to hip.

* * *

It's fucking weird after that. Marty is trying his damn hardest not to make it weird, because that's clearly what Rust wants, but maybe Marty trying not to make it weird is what's making it weird in the first place. Who the fuck even knows. 

What's worse is that Rust can tell. And Rust, for lack of a better word, is fucking bothered by it. Tries not to let it show, which makes it worse, and even more obvious somehow. He’s on a low simmer, almost, like a pot of water slowly starting to boil over. 

The more Marty tries to be normal, the worse it gets. And he would stop thinking about it if he could, but that is just not happening. The knowledge is constant and relentless, like a broken bone, impossible to move around without noticing it again, stuck in the back of his mind like tar. Which feels fucking melodramatic, because it’s not _Marty’s_ experience, after all. It’s not his to carry, and he’s probably not being helpful here, but at the same time… fuck. He can’t make his heart ache any less. 

It all comes to a head when Rust tries to actually make out with him again – which is fair enough, Marty supposes, because even he can admit it’s a disaster. Rust pushes him back against the door frame leading into the hallway and plasters himself against Marty’s front, both of his arms winding themselves around Marty’s shoulders, like they always do, like they’ve done a hundred times before, mouth soft and insistent, and all Marty can seem to think about is _pretty sure they were gonna break my nose at some point_ and _might’ve told them to fuck off or something_ on a constant loop in his head.

He’s not even sure if he’s angry or devastated, the strange and unidentifiable feeling he’s been carrying around for the past few days spreading through his chest in a sudden spike of heat and bile. Then Rust jerks back all of a sudden, almost _flings_ himself across the room. Marty just stares at him, caught of guard, trying to understand what just happened because his brain is still occupied. Rust is panting. 

_“Fuck_ you, man,” he says and he sounds angry now, too, which… well, it’s _something,_ Marty supposes. 

“Okay…” he says, going for calm. “What the hell. Why?”

“Nothing,” Rust murmurs, already shaking his head, but he seems furious, shoulders tense, hands curling into fists. “You be the fuckin’ good guy, Marty, as always, you do whatever you gotta do. Whatever you gotta tell yourself.”

“The fuck-” Marty says, except Rust is already ramping up to an actual rant and doesn’t even seem to listen.

“That bullshit is _my_ fucking issue,” he says, color high on his cheeks. “Mine alone. Do you fuckin’ get that?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t-”

“Ain’t none of your _fuckin’_ business-”

“Well, no, but you _told_ me-”

“So it ain’t your fuckin’ place to tell me what I can and can’t do-”

“Now hang on, I wasn’t-”

“Or what the fuck _I’m_ comfortable with-”

“Well maybe _I ain’t comfortable!”_ Marty yells at him, which is obviously very unfair, he realizes that before he’s even finished yelling, a strange mix of terror and embarrassment stuck in his throat. It tastes weirdly like grief.

If anything, Rust looks even more outraged. He’s crossed his arms in front of his chest now, like he’s trying to curl in on himself, stiff as a board at the same time. He’s breathing like he’s about two seconds away from a panic attack, red splotches on his face. 

“Fuck you,” he drawls, terrifyingly slow and deliberate. _“Fuck_ you, Marty, seriously. You fuckin’ knew what you were gettin’ into. You _knew.”_

“What I was getting _into?”_ Marty manages, startled. “What is that supposed to-”

“I fuckin’- so what, you just get to be done now? Because of some bullshit that happened fuckin’ years ago, Jesus, man, you need to get _over_ yourself-”

“What-” Marty stammers and then, because that seems like the most important thing right now, “I’m not done! What the fuck, I’m not done with _anything,_ the hell makes you think I’m done?”

 _“You can’t even fuckin’ look at me!!”_ Rust motherfucking shouts at him, red-faced and wide-eyed. It seems to echo through the entire house, the entire universe. Marty has never, ever heard him yell like that before, not once, not for anything. It’s like a lightning strike, improbable and electrifying.

“That’s not true,” Marty says quietly, because… well, it really isn’t. If anything, he feels like staring at him even more. “...m’looking at you right now.”

“Well, halle- _fucking_ -lujah,” Rust mutters. His breathing has gone harsh, shoulders rising and falling like he’s crying, almost, except of course he isn’t. He looks… defeated. Even more folded in on himself than usual, like his own weight might crush him at any second.

“You want me to stop looking at you,” Marty continues just as quietly, because for some weird, instinctual reason this seems like it might be the right course of action. “Gotta stop bein’ so goddamn easy on the eyes, Rust.” 

Rust scoffs at that, but Marty pays him no mind. “What,” he says, still plain terrified of saying the wrong thing. “Can’t be news to you. Pretty fucking sure you clocked me on that right from the very beginning.”

“You fuckin’ hated me in the beginning.”

“Yeah,” Marty says. “Yeah, ‘cause you were just standin’ there, _looking_ like that, scowlin’ at the whole fuckin’ world.”

“I didn’t…” Rust mutters. “I wasn’t lookin’ like anything, man.”

“I mean, you obviously weren’t trying to,” Marty says. “Not like you were trying to be an asshole about anything under the sun, at least, put some real effort into _that.”_

“Glass houses…” Rust murmurs. He’s still pink in the face, but he seems less tense – arms still crossed, but only loosely, hands just lazily hanging on like an afterthought. Then he straightens up a bit and says, “Listen, it ain’t… we don’t have to fuck if you’re feelin’ like shit about it. I’m, I don’t care, Marty, it ain’t a fuckin’ _requirement.”_

“But me, I very obviously can’t go without,” Marty says sarcastically. “That what you’re implying, here.”

Rust gives him a very pointed look. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Marty says, but there’s no heat behind it. “And I don’t give a damn about me, believe it or not, I want _you_ not to feel like shit, you stupid asshole.”

“But I’m _not,”_ Rust says, exasperated. “I ain’t, I fuckin’- Jesus Christ, man, you think I’d just, what, lie there and suck it up and…” 

Marty gives him a very pointed look back, which makes him trail off, looking a bit sheepish; both of them clearly remembering all the times Rust said he didn’t care, they could do whatever the fuck Marty wanted, he’d be just fine with anything. 

“That’s different," he says now, stubbornly raising his chin again. 

“Ohh yeah, _that’s_ different all of a sudden,” Marty says, disbelieving. “Pray tell, how in the fuck is that any different?”

“Because you’re _you,”_ Rust says, annoyed, like that much should be self-explanatory and he can’t for the life of him understand how Marty can’t understand that. Which Marty _doesn’t,_ for the record, because it makes absolutely no sense at all. His face probably does a fine enough job conveying that sentiment for him, because Rust _rolls his fucking eyes,_ the fucker. The fucking nerve, Marty thinks, not sure if he’s feeling fond or irritated. 

“I honestly don’t mind if it’s you,” Rust says, like that explains anything or makes anything even remotely better, which it doesn’t. It just makes it sound like he’s mostly doing Marty a favor, sleeping with him, which… okay. Marty is well aware he might not be the most sensitive person in the world, the most _aware_ person as far as other people and their inner workings are concerned, but he’s not _that_ fucking blind, or _that_ fucking stupid.

Which by no means rules out the possibility he might’ve fucked up in the past and didn’t even _realize,_ because Rust just… might have taken it in stride, and Jesus, _fuck,_ the idea alone makes him feel sick to his stomach all over again. But there has been some good stuff too, Marty thinks, he’s not that fucking delusional, some genuine _enjoyment_ has been had. 

Tries very hard not to think about the last time they did things, almost two weeks ago now – Rust leaning back heavily against him, twisted around far enough to press his forehead against Marty’s jaw, hot, unsteady breaths ghosting over Marty’s collarbone, as he’s working his own dick in and out of Marty’s slick fist, fucking himself closer and closer to orgasm with every trembling roll of his hips. Took him a long time, doing it like this, which is something he seems to like – going slow, drawing it all out until he’s barely coherent anymore, damp curls sticking to his face, clutching at Marty’s thighs like he needed to anchor himself.

 _That,_ Marty thinks, trying to ignore the memory at the same time, because it’s a nice memory, okay, it’s not like he didn’t enjoy that show tremendously, which seems completely fucking inappropriate right now, given the kind of conversation they’re having. He didn’t fucking imagine _that,_ that was a real thing, Rust wasn’t just trying to get through it, he liked doing that. He was into it. Then again, Marty thinks darkly, who even fucking knows. Maybe he’s been on the wrong page for months and didn’t even realize.

“Well,” he says out loud, trying to sound neutral, because this is not about _him,_ God dammit. It still ends up sounding way too sarcastic. “That’s reassuring.”

“What do you want me to say,” Rust says, exasperated. “The fuck do you wanna hear, Marty? What’re you lookin’ for?”

“Jesus,” Marty mutters and heroically resists the urge to scrub a hand down his face. “The truth,” he says then. “Alright? I don’t wanna hear anything that’s not-”

“I did tell you the truth,” Rust points out. “And yet, here we fuckin’ are.”

Which is… well, true. Which doesn’t make it better, honestly, because it still leaves Marty at a loss. The main issue right now seems to be something he was a bit worried about from the very beginning – the question of whether Rust would even tell him if anything was the matter or if he’d just keep quiet about it, because somehow, at some point, he managed to convince himself that it didn’t fucking matter all that much. Complete insanity? Yeah. Sure. Then again, it does sound like the exact brand of insane bullshit Rust might come up with if he’s left to his own devices for too long.

“Look,” Marty says. “At the risk of sounding like a self-important asshole again… how the fuck am I s’posed to feel ‘bout that? Huh? You just… sayin’ shit like this? Like you don’t fuckin’ matter at all?”

Rust has got his game face on once again, the one that says he’s got a handle on this here situation now, he knows how to play it. Marty kind of hates that face, at least when it’s directed at him. 

“Nothing fuckin’ matters, Marty,” Rust says and now it's Marty’s turn to roll his eyes towards the ceiling.

“Right, okay, yeah, you know what…” he says. “Still. Indulge me for a fuckin’ second.”

“And here I was under the impression that me indulgin’ you was exactly what the fuckin’ problem was,” Rust says, very sarcastically.

“Well, are you?”

“Am I what, Marty.”

“Just… I don’t fuckin’ know, humoring me or something?”

Rust straightens up at the question, drawing himself up to his full height, which is respectable, actually. Asshole is pretty damn tall when he wants to be. Still got his arms crossed, but now the gesture seems determined instead of him trying to steady himself. 

“What the fuck d'you think?”

“I don't _know,”_ Marty says. “That's the problem-” 

“Nahhh,” Rust drawls, interrupting him. “You know.”

“No, I don't.”

 _“Yeah,_ you do.” 

“No,” Marty says, well aware that this is probably childish as fuck and not caring in the slightest. “I do not.”

“Yeah,” Rust says, calm as anything, nodding a bit for emphasis. His face seems flushed, cheeks turning pink a bit, or maybe Marty is delusional. Maybe he’s just seeing things. “You do know, man. Just ‘cause I don’t… say shit out loud, you’d know if- yeah. You’d know.”

Marty stares at him, just standing there, all limbs, sharp angles and soft eyes, and doesn’t know what to say. 

“Yeah, well,” he grumbles eventually. “That’s _your_ fuckin’ opinion.” and Rust drawls “damn right it is,” like he just won the entire argument.

* * *

That night, Rust slinks into the bedroom like he’s trying to burgle the place. 

“Look who’s decided to make an appearance,” Marty says dryly, trying to ignore the way his heartbeat has kicked up, all hopeful and happy. Rust is dressed for bed, which means he’s dressed the same way he usually is when he’s just been padding around the house all day, but Mary heard him brush his teeth before and his temples are still damp from washing his face, so. Might as well have wandered in here in a matching pajama set. 

He’s brought a book – because clearly, the two columns piled on his side of the bed that have reached to top of the mattress by now are not enough reading material – tucked safely against his chest, giving Marty an unimpressed look as he sheds his sweatpants and clambers into bed in just his underwear. Leans back against the headboard like he’s trying to recreate a perfect 90 degree angle, cradling the book in his lap. 

“M’not gonna sleep,” he says like it’s some big declaration, like he’s obligated to give Marty the rundown of all the possible risks and side-effects of the evening. “I mean, I might, it ain’t like it’s completely impossible, but… it ain’t likely neither.” 

“So?” Marty says. “I look like I give a fuck?”

“I’m just saying. Gonna keep my light on.”

“Jesus Christ,” Marty says. “Anything but that!”

“M’just _saying,”_ Rust says again, annoyed. “Not like I can’t read in the living room or the guest room or on the fuckin’ roof or something.”

“Now _that_ I’d like to see,” Marty says.

“Yeahhh, nah, way too dangerous,” Rust mutters, “Might get a crick in your neck or something, tryin’ to look up that high.” 

“Fuck you too,” Marty says, grinning. 

Pushes at Rust’s shoulder for good measure, carefully, makes it a point to linger afterwards, digging his fingers in a bit, kneading the muscle. Rust shoots him a look, lighting quick and undecipherable, but he seems less tense all of a sudden. Or maybe not tense, but less… _alert,_ somehow; corner of his mouth curling into a half-smile.

“Listen,” Marty says quietly. “You don’t fuckin’ worry ‘bout me, alright?” 

“Never once worried ‘bout you, man,” Rust says, smiling, and that’s that for now, apparently.

When Marty wakes up the next morning, it’s criminally early, barely even light out. Rust is still sitting up against the headboard, one leg drawn up, wrist casually dangling where his arm is resting on top of his knee. He’s staring at the opposing wall like he’s miles away, calm and distant, not blinking much. Impossible to tell if he’s been sitting like that since Marty fell asleep last night, or if he took a break and tried to get some sleep in, or what. 

Marty takes a deep breath, blinking the sleep from his eyes. Reaches out and fumbles for Rust’s other wrist, loosely wraps his fingers around it, not really meaning to disturb. Rust does nothing for a few long seconds, and then he blinks. First at the wall, then down at his own wrist, before he follows the line of Marty’s arm up to his face. 

“Hey,” Marty murmurs, voice sounding sleep-rough. “You know what?”

“What,” Rust says, still blinking at him dreamily. He’s pushing back against the headboard a bit, like he’s stretching, head falling to the side, face tipping in Marty’s direction lazily.

“They didn’t deserve you,” Marty says. Has zero idea where this is coming from or why he is even saying it. “And _you_ sure as hell didn’t fuckin’ deserve them. Ginger. Whoever the fuck. You’re way too good for them, Rust. Even then. Always were, always will be.”

Almost adds that Rust is probably way too good for him too, objectively speaking, because Rust is… an enigma. Lighting in a bottle. Would probably turn out to be a certified fucking genius if anybody ever bothered to check, and what’s more, he’s got conviction. Was still stubbornly committed to doing the right thing even when the whole entire world was telling him to go fuck himself. 

“Nahh,” Rust mumbles. “It’s… s’fine, Marty, really. Could’ve been worse. Look where I managed to end up.”

And Marty would like to say something in return, maybe something self-deprecating and sarcastic, but he absolutely can’t right now, because he might burst into tears if he tries. So he does the next best thing, pulling at Rust’s wrist before he even realizes what he’s doing and then he’s got his mouth pressed against the back of Rust’s hand, long, delicate fingers clutched between his own. 

Pulls away for a second, before he kisses it a second time, and then once more, just for good measure. 

Just so Rust knows. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Some additional information for those who might want it:**  
>  Nothing non-consensual happens in the actual story, nor is there a flashback. Neither one of the main characters is or was a perpetrator of the sexual violence that is discussed. Everything is told from the perspective of the victim. The whole thing ends on a positive note. Still, it's probably best to err on the side of caution.


End file.
